


Irish Breakfast

by RosesToPaint



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shop Fic, Derek's leather jacket club, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Outsider, Stalking, Tags will be updated as the story progresses, awkward Isaac, bit of coarse language, implied threats of violence, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosesToPaint/pseuds/RosesToPaint
Summary: Some regulars are more ... irregular than others. When awkward and skittish Wednesday-small-coffee first comes in, bored college student Hannah thinks nothing of it. She's good with people; sooner or later she'll coax a name out of him and maybe feed him a cupcake or two. But the better she gets to know Isaac, the more alarmed she gets about his behavior, his weight and the odd bruises that seem to dot his arms like splotches of watercolor.While they both stumble their way towards something like friendship, Hannah realizes that maybe Beacon Hills isn't as quiet and boring as she though. Even a small town can hide monsters of very different breeds.





	1. Chapter 1

Hello guys! It's been ages since I've done anything in this fandom (I should really catch up on the show too - season 3 and upwards totally passed me by), but somehow I was inspired. This fic isn't going to be terribly long (which is very unlike me), because it doesn't really follow the show. This story is mostly about character development and hurt/comfort, not about killing things that need killing. Sorry:D

The title, btw, is supposed to be a bit of a joke. I've recently stumbled over a description of English vs Irish Breakfast: English Breakfast nudges you awake, Irish Breakfast kicks you awake. Which is basically what's going to happen to Hannah.

* * *

 

 

Beacon Hills is a small town.

Locals would say differently. They’d point out that, with a population of about 160.000 people, they were comparable to cities like Providence or Syracuse. They’d list several buildings and landmarks – like the preserve, or Beacon Hills University, which both boast a bit of a reputation – and possibly at Jungle, because they’re progressive like that, and nod to themselves. We’re a city. A small one, but a city nonetheless. And they’d be right, technically.

But it’s undeniable that Beacon Hills has a distinct small town feeling to it. It’s something Hannah's always equally liked and hated about the place. Everyone knows everyone – and even if they don’t, they have a neighbour or cousin who does. Instead of six degrees of separation, the residents of Beacon Hills seem to get by fine with just two or three.

 

Sometimes that’s a good thing. Hannah knows her regulars. Well, not hers, but her mother’s. There’s six a.m. double-espresso with his perpetual bed-hair, who mostly communicates in grunts but smiles when your service is fast enough (Joseph). There’s afternoon-English Breakfast with her manicured finger nails and the impatient frown, who tips really well when she catches herself being a bitch (Lydia). And, one of her favourites, Friday-morning-hot chocolate. Hannah knows he is a professor at the uni, history, and he must be in his late fifties at the least. But she’s never seen him drink coffee or tea here, only cocoa (Professor Barnes).

The down-side of this small town mentality is that, well, the regulars know her too. For example, in the last month she’s come to really hate Monday-evening-black coffee, who introduced himself as Steven and hasn’t taken a damn hint since.

“I need to close up now,” she tells him for the third time, interrupting a truly riveting account of Steven’s basketball exploits. Hannah’s been out of high school for a year now; she’s not fucking interested, even if he made captain twice over. And she hasn’t been out of school long enough to forget that nobody cares about basketball. Lacrosse is where it’s really at. Steven’s mouth snaps shut with a click. He looks distinctly displeased, but she really couldn’t care less at this point. Hannah makes a point to be nice to customers, no matter how terribly rude, because that’s what her mother expects and that’s what they’re famous for. Starbucks has found its way into Beacon Hills about four years ago and small businesses have been disappearing as a consequence.

The only way to survive is to offer something they can’t. And _Josie’s_ capitalizes on the small town feel that everyone is snubbing their noses at. ‘They protest, but secretly everyone loves it if you know their name,’ her mother said. ‘You’d be surprised how much better you can make someone’s day if you just greet them by name and ask after their children.’

Their continued survival lends a certain amount of gravity to Louise Malkin’s assessment. It’s not a new idea, of course. Josie herself, Louise’s aunt, was the embodiment of customer service and apparently knew what you wanted and how you wanted it before you knew it yourself. ‘A few more years,’ her mother still tends to say, ‘and I’ll be all that. I hope.’ As it is, she’s almost all that.

In front of her, Steve looks as if he might protest, but she takes the almost empty cup from him and dumps the contents into the sink. “I’m already late,” she continues, stubbornly refusing to be intimidated by the way he leans over the counter to her. “I’ll see you around.”

He huffs, put off, but nods. “Well, it’s always nice to see you, Han.”

“My name’s Hannah.”

“Yes, of course.” He tries to smile charmingly at her, but her face stays flat, animosity hidden only by the thinnest veneer of polite interest. Steven ignores it and swaggers out the door with a wave. He’s such a meathead, she thinks. If she only knew what the hell she did to encourage him. But then again, some people don’t need encouragements. She locks the door behind him, mood ruined for the evening, despite her best efforts to stay positive. At home a pile of work is still waiting for her. There’s an essay that needs to be finished; the deadline is this Friday and her marketing professor is an asshat. He’ll expect nothing short of perfection, especially because her family owns a small business and she should have grown up with this crap and particularly because she’s started college early. The truth is though, she hates marketing and her mother rules their little shop with an iron fist and doesn’t let her anywhere near the nitty gritty before she has the appropriate qualification. Until then it’s the counter for her. And Steven. Hannah sighs.

 

On Wednesday afternoon the chime of the door bell pulls her away from frosting a couple of cupcakes in violent pink. “You go,” her mother says distractedly, sniffing at a small bag of fancy coffee beans. “I’m going to call Marcus. I think this might be our new brand.”

Hannah sneaks a little whiff, trying to parse out how this doesn’t smell exactly like the one they’ve been using for ten years, but obediently makes her way to the front.

Wednesdays are usually calm. Not like Mondays and Tuesday, when the weekend still has a determined grip on people, and not like Thursdays and Fridays when everyone’s ready for a bit of free time. It’s also afternoon, late afternoon – not exactly rush hour – so Hannah has a pretty good idea who it might be. She feels only a little pleased when a head of blond hair comes into view.

It’s easy to forget sometimes that customers aren’t neatly divided into the good type and the bad type. In fact, she’s not even sure if she can call him a regular at all, because he comes in pretty irregularly. Hannah also hasn’t managed to catch his name yet, and he looks skittish enough that she doesn’t dare to ask, lest he bolt and never come back. He hasn’t seen her yet, so she gives him a moment, watching how he counts out a few coins, eying the menu furtively. Yet another advantage they have over Starbucks – they’re reasonably cheap.

“Good afternoon,” she finally chirps and tries not to flinch in response when he flinches. “How can I help you?”

“A small coffee to go,” he says predictably. “... do you have any syrup?” It’s a question they get asked very often, though he’s certainly never dared to.

“Sure,” she says instead, deciding to bite down on the information that a shot of syrup costs fifty cent more. “We have hazelnut, vanilla and mint – you know, the basics.”

He nods slowly, eyes darting over her face and then quickly away. “Hazelnut then, please.”

He fidgets the entire three minutes it takes her to whip up his order; when she hands him the small cup his ‘thank you’ is almost inaudible and he leaves quickly with a timid smile and a ducked head.

Wednesday-afternoon-coffee – now apparently coffee-with-hazelnut – is a new addition to their regulars. The way he struggles with his money tells her that he only recently got a job and probably isn’t paid very well. A high school student by the look of him, maybe two or three years younger than her. He’s a bit weird, but not the kind of weird that makes her uncomfortable. She returns to the kitchen with a ponderous frown.

“The skittish kid?” her mother questions around a mouth full of pink strawberry-cream frosting.

“Yeah,” she admits hesitantly before rescuing the bowl of frosting from her mom’s idle spoon. “Don’t double dip, you hypocrite.”

“I wasn’t going to! I haven’t had lunch yet. Are there any paninis left?” Her mother sneaks a look in the left-over basket and pulls out a sandwich. “How was he today? Bit less anxious?”

Hannah sighs. “Nope. But he asked for syrup today, so I guess that’s an improvement?”

Her mother snorts. “Kids, honestly. I wouldn’t call syrup an improvement on anything but at least he’s gotten a bit braver. I’m afraid he’ll run away if I look at him wrong.”

“Not just you,” Hannah grunts, distracted once again by the cupcakes. “But I’ve decided we should keep him. He’s sort of sweet. Like a puppy.”

Her mother laughs out loud, stuffing the rest of her sandwich into her mouth in a decidedly inelegant fashion. “I wonder where he works though,” the older woman muses. “He smells a bit weird sometimes, doesn’t he? Like fish.”

“You shouldn’t talk – remember when we wanted to sell tuna sandwiches and you-“

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, you’re right. He’s a sweet kid and for all we know he works the cold storages for Edie.”

Edie Walton manages the local grocery giant; she’s an old bitch and if he does work for her, Hannah feels sorry for him.

“Would explain why clams up like that around women,” she concludes, putting a decisive end to the topic. “If I worked for Edie, I would too.”

And that’s that.

 

Another downside to small town – excuse her, _city_ – life is that Hannah’s life isn’t very interesting. There are exactly two bars that she likes to frequent on the odd weekend, with the same three acquaintances. She has only a hand full of people that she talks to in class or during lunch who think she’s mildly funny. She pursues a small number of hobbies with muted interest and generally simply skirts by, mostly unnoticed. People know her and when asked will describe her as ‘pretty nice’ and even ‘kinda smart’.

But fact is, Hannah has her routines that content her and she’s never managed to drudge up enough motivation to strive for excellence or uniqueness; it’s work, classes, occasional bar hopping – and once she has her degree, it’ll be work, work, occasional bar hopping. So she tends to get a bit invested in her regulars’ lives to make up for it. “You need to lighten your course work,” she advises double-espresso-Joseph. “I feel like you’ve been looking worse every day you come in.”

Grouchily he waves her concern away. “I’m doing ok. Just one more semester and I’m sure I’ll know what I want to major in. Art history is really interesting, so I’ve been thinking about that one.”

“That’s what you said about biology,” she feels forced to point out.

“And it _is_ – I just can’t deal with that level of maths. Didn’t think about that.”

Hannah shakes her head at him, unable to keep from tutting at the older student like a mother hen. She finally relinquishes his espresso to him, but not before pulling a cupcake from the display case. “Eat something. I swear you’re like ninety percent coffee at this point.”

“Like your mom,” he grunts and Hannah isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a dig or an observation. Joseph skulks out the door, a cigarette already dangling from his mouth. Another customer shoves past him through the door, nearly spilling espresso on both of them. Joseph curses and shoots the guy a vicious look, but refrains from starting a fight when he catches Hannah’s unhappy expression. “Steven,” she deadpans. “Watch where you’re going, please.” The boy smiles at her, as if her words didn’t really register.

“Han – you make my morning a lot brighter.”

“Yeah, sure.” His face darkens momentarily at the brusque dismissal before turning more determined. For good measure she says, “How can I help you?” as if she isn’t famous for knowing her regulars’ orders by heart. Steven frowns before ordering a large black coffee. It’s the first time he’s come in outside his usual visits; she hopes it won’t become a habit.

“Say,” he starts as she kicks their coffee machine into gear, “maybe we could go out sometime? I mean, catch a movie or something.”

“I’m sorry Steven,” she grinds out, “I think I’m a little too old for you. Also, I don’t date customers.” She really can’t believe that guy. As if she hasn’t been obvious enough – as if pressing more would make her say ‘yes’ somehow. He has balls, she’ll give him that. And an incredibly thick head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he blusters. “I’m at most a year younger than you. That’s basically nothing.”

“Sorry, Steven,” she repeats firmly, hoping this’ll be the end of it. “Here’s your coffee. Have a nice day.”

 

On Friday evening – shortly before closing time at eight – someone else familiar breaks their pattern. Hannah tries to bury her displeasure; she’s already cleaned the coffee machine and now she’ll have to do it again. But skittish coffee-with-hazelnut is quietly counting coins in front of the counter and she melts a little. He looks a bit pathetic like this, hidden in half-shadow and tall frame hunched over like a scolded child. “Good evening,” she greets and means it. He startles a little, but not as much as the last time. “Hello,” he offers awkwardly. “I’m sorry ... are you closing already?”

“You’ve got a few more minutes,” she encourages. “What would you like?”

“Um – a small coffee, please.”

“With hazelnut?” she prompts, amused when he looks surprised.

“... Yes.”

“Working late?” she questions while shovelling coffee into the machine. He doesn’t run or look all that uncomfortable this time. Instead he shrugs a little. “I ... have a night shift,” he finally admits slowly, as if unsure whether she’d really want to know that. Hannah sighs.

“Tough luck,” she commiserates and steps into the kitchen for a moment. He really does make a sad picture, she thinks. And night shifts are depressing enough as it is. There are a few pieces of pastry in the left-over bag that she moved there not five minutes ago. Hannah pulls out two of the nicer cinnamon rolls and puts them into a carry bag. “You’re going to need that,” she tells him and shoves it at the boy. He looks startled for a moment but before he can protest she puts his coffee down on the counter too.

“Either you take them,” she informs him earnestly, “or I’ll have to throw them out. I hate wasting food.” To make a point she takes one of the tougher pastries and drops it into the trash. He ducks his head and murmurs something that might have been a ‘thank you’ before dropping a hand full of cash into the tray. Only after he’s out of the door Hannah realizes that it’s too much for a small coffee. Almost enough to pay for a pastry too.

 

When she tells her mother, the older woman laughs at her.

“Don’t mother the boy,” she advises. “Some people don’t like it.”

“I don’t get what the harm is,” Hannah grouches. “I wasn’t lying. We eat some, but if we don’t dump most of it we’ll both get fat.” So she has a soft spot for small animals; and that guy with his silly hair and the big eyes definitely falls under that category.

“Excuse me,” her mother grunts. “I’m not fat. Even if I ate all of the left-overs, I’d be ... pleasantly plump, ok?”

“Of course,” Hannah soothes, somewhat amused. “Delightfully dumpy. Or ... refreshingly rotund.” Her mother throws a dishrag at her. “Charmingly chubby?” she offers before she’s chased out of the kitchen.

 

Skittish coffee-with-hazel nut falls from an old, irregular pattern into a new, more stable one and slowly becomes part of Hannah’s routine. His name is Isaac, she finds out, and he tends to fight her when she ‘forgets’ that he ordered a small coffee and she gives him a medium one, or when she unloads slightly dry sandwiches on him. He’s by far not as sweet as he first seemed, but she still finds him somewhat charming. Even if he turned out to be a bit bull headed.

“Oh come on,” she coaxes, pushing a single muffin at him with her index finger. He stares at it as if it’s likely to bite him. She gives it another small push. Then another. Slowly it inches its way up to Isaac, who glowers at her unconvincingly. “It’s my own creation,” Hannah boasts, before deflating. “It’s just that nobody will eat it because it looks ...” Well.

It’s green, for one. And maybe she shouldn’t have put ‘spinach’ in the name, even if it’s in the cupcake. Beacon Hills isn’t _that_ progressive, after all. “You just need to give it a chance.”

“Don’t you have other people to harass with your radioactive cakes?” But under the sass he’s giving her, Isaac looks interested.

“They’re cowards,” she bemoans. “Even my mom.”

“Fine,” he huffs and snatches the offensively colored cupcake off the counter. She watches very closely as he eats, face moving through several interesting expressions before settling on cautiously pleased.

“I feel like this should taste bad,” he offers hesitantly. “It’s good. Is that vanilla frosting?” He leaves with three more of Hannah’s Hulk cupcakes and a pout; she counts it as a win.

 

It’s not all fun and games though. She’s no longer afraid he’ll run, but Isaac still tends to flinch pretty violently when she startles him and sometimes he comes in looking as if he hasn’t slept in a week. True enough, she knows he takes at least three night shifts a week, because he comes in on Monday, Thursday and Friday now; always just before closing time and always a bit guilty looking until she distracts him with coffee and easy conversation.

“He’s too thin,” even her mother bemoans, now that the boy occasionally stands still long enough for her to get a good look at him. “Hannah, are you feeding him?”

“Didn’t you tell me not to mother him? And if I give him more cupcakes he’ll get diabetes.” Apart from that, she doesn’t know how much he’ll tolerate. He is very thin, and teenage boys as a rule are always hungry, but Isaac has demonstrated a rather shocking proud streak. It’s a fine line she’s walking in feeding him things without offending him.

“You should come by during the day some time,” she offers one day, strangely attuned to Isaac’s posture as it shifts behind her. “It’s boring around midday. You’re a good distraction. Also, on Wednesdays I make my own pastries. I need someone to taste test before I can unleash them on the paying customers.”

“... Are they going to be funny colors?”

Hannah snorts. “Some.”

“Then maybe.”

Maybe she’s getting a bit too invested by asking him to _come in almost every day_ , but Hannah does like him and it’s true that she’d like to be a bit distracted. When she turns around, coffee in hand, Isaac is already looking at her. He’s assessing her, she thinks, and for the first time he meets Hannah’s eyes calmly. “You’re a strange one,” he says, shoulders sagging; she’s never noticed before just how on guard he still is around her. Immediately he seems a few inches taller and she makes a face at him. “Excuse you,” she grouses good-naturedly. “I have power over your hazelnut syrup, so you better be nice to me.”

He chortles, a soft, quiet sound, and takes the cup from her. His hand is surprisingly cold as it brushes her fingers and it occurs to Hannah that he also seems to have made a conscious effort not to touch her. Usually she becomes pretty friendly with her regulars and most of them have touched her at some point - even if just to snatch their coffee from her or hand her money. Isaac always places his money on the counter and waits for Hannah to put his coffee down. Whatever he tried to assess her for, he obviously found it. She grins at him.

 

“He’s cute,” Wednesday-Earl Grey, Mrs. Martinez, tells her. Mrs. Martinez is in her late sixties and a bit of a busy-body but really sweet. Hannah shoots her an exasperated look. “Don’t spook him,” she warns the elderly lady. “He’s shy.” Three tables over, Isaac stays happily oblivious. His homework is spread out before him; sophomore maths and chemistry.

“It’s true though,” the woman presses. “I know the young man’s father. Mr. Lahey used to coach the high school swim team. Now he manages the cemetery.” She pinches her lips, as if that in itself is already a crime. Hannah looks at her with curiosity. She doesn’t like to gossip too much, it wouldn’t do to let people think she talks about them behind their backs, but it’s too tempting not to ask.

“What’s he like?” Mrs. Martinez tuts at her eagerness, but relents easily. “He’s not a very nice man, if you ask me. But then again, his wife died and then his oldest son ... Had a hard life. But he let it destroy him.” Her face seems caught between pity and disapproval. “The way he acts you’d think he didn’t have any family left.”

They turn their heads as one towards the blonde boy. Hannah looks for _something_ that might confirm the story, but Isaac looks as he always does. His clothes are reasonably well taken care of and apart from the air of perpetual exhaustion around him he looks normal. Except for his thin wrists. And the jumpiness. And the money problems. And the way he used to look at her – as if she would start shouting any minute. Hannah rubs her eyes. Shit.

Mrs. Martinez watches her with knowing eyes.

“He could do with some attention,” she finally says and snatches her lukewarm tea from the counter. “I’d tell your mother, but you seem up for the job.” Once the older woman is out of the door, Hannah grabs the tea kettle and goes to top of the boy’s tea.

“It’s just water,” she teases when he pulls a face at her. A small package drops into his lap. “And milk.” The scent of Assam is strong, even with the second steep. She leans over his shoulder to look at his homework and he stiffens. Hannah ignores it and simply sniffs. “I don’t envy you.” It looks like probability calculations. She bumps her hip into his shoulder and Isaac sways with the force of it; it startles a snort out of him.

 

So her routine becomes a little more pleasant. Isaac’s visits, brief before his shifts and a little longer on Wednesdays, cast their little coffee shop in a completely alien but comfortable light. Pleasant quiet; a break from the tedious work day. It’s almost enough to distract her from the increasing annoyance that is Steven, who seems to do the exact opposite.

On most days Hannah is good at avoiding him. ‘Some men don’t take rejection well,’ her mother commiserated and has since manned the front every time he comes around. But her mom can’t always shield her from uncomfortable situations; sometimes she’s alone in the shop or her mother is busy in the back. Sometimes he surprises her before she can politely disappear.

“You should go out with me,” he insists, ignoring how she leans away from him. “I mean, you don’t get out much, right? It’d be fun – how long has it been since you dated last?” She glares at him incredulously. “Not that you’re not pretty,” he amends quickly, “it’s just, well ...”

She has no idea what ‘well’ is and Hannah has really no interest in finding out what exactly Steven finds lacking about her. “I said I’m not interested, ok. I don’t want to go out with you. Leave me alone already.” There’s only so much a girl can stomach before she punches a guy in the face. He’s become increasingly insulting and she’s this close to simply throwing him out and calling it a day.

“You’re a bitch,” he says with feeling. “The reason why nobody asks you out is because you’re a bitch.”

“Whoa,” it comes from somewhere at the tables; a teenage girl throws them both a concerned look. Steven looks startled, as if only realizing that he’s cornering a barista in front of witnesses, and leaves hurriedly without his coffee. She takes particular pleasure in watching it go down the drain.

“Did he just – call you a bitch?” her mother asks incredulously, sticking her head out of the kitchen.

“Yes. Yes, he did.”

“If he does it again, feel free to kick him out. I don’t give a rat’s ass about his $1.80.”

“He’s a fucktard,” the teenage girl quips. “I’d have spit in his coffee.”

Hannah snorts. “I’m too damn classy for that shit.”

 

It was only a matter of time, she reflects later, that both of her little worlds would collide sooner or later.

 


	2. Chapter 2

All right guys, this is a tad shorter than the last one - and also the last chapter from Hannah's pov. Though of course it's not the last we see of her.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday morning crawls along. There are a bunch of new faces, as there usually are, and two regulars. But midweek is mostly dead, as always. Only when the hands on their big, overly heavy clock hit 1 p.m. she relaxes a little. In about an hour Isaac will come meandering in, shoulders hunched in a familiar post class low. This time she’s actually managed to ‘accidently’ make too many sandwiches, and she’s been scheming since nine o’clock how to make him eat some.

“Don’t you get too invested, now,” her mother says as she walks up behind her, far too sharp-eyed to miss her furtive glances at the clock. “He’s a teenage boy; they’re flighty. He could stop coming in any day now.”

“They’re not all that fickle,” she huffs, maybe a tad too defensively.

“Yeah,” her mother acknowledges easily. “They’re surprisingly tenacious when they have a crush. I don’t think you’d like that any better, would you?”

Hannah gives her a sullen look. No, she wouldn’t. He’s really very sweet, and it’s not like she hasn’t realized that so much attention from a girl could be taken the wrong way, but she’ll cross that bridge when they get there. “Don’t worry,” she scoffs, instead of trying to voice her somewhat half-assed feelings on the matter, “I still like my men older.”

“I love that you say ‘men’, not ‘boys’,” her mother snorts. “Keep that in mind, would you.”

Hannah decides not to point out that Isaac is also way underage, because that would definitely sound too defensive. Instead she rolls her eyes with all the might of someone riding out the aftershocks of puberty and leaves it at that.

 

At exactly 1:50 p.m. the door bell chimes, because Isaac is nothing if not a creature of habit. He looks glum, but by the time he’s unloaded his bag onto a chair and made his way over to her, his glower has smoothed out into something more approachable. “Hey, Hannah.”

“Well, well,” she drawls. “Good afternoon, dear customer.” He smiles a little. “Assam?” she asks, only for politeness’ sake.

“As always,” he demurs. From up close it’s easy to see that there are bags under his eyes. Yesterday was a nightshift; tomorrow is too. She hopes he’ll sleep ok today at least.

“Bad day?” she wonders out loud as she plucks a tea bag from the shelf and pours some water on it. Isaac makes a vague sounding noise and so she reaches for an extra package of sugar. “This will wake you up. ... And we’re switching to chamomile later on. If my tea keeps you up, mom will never let me live it down.” He throws her an exasperated look but doesn’t protest. So what if she’s a bit pushy? Hannah is woman enough to admit that she likes taking care of him. As Mrs. Martinez said, he needs it. It helps that, despite the frequent grumbling, she occasionally catches a small, happy smile on his face when she brow beats him into something he likes.

So she shoos him to his table and promises to bring the tea over – pointedly not mentioning the bacon sandwich she’ll bring too. “You have to stop doing that,” he complains, sounding both serious and apprehensive, as if she’d say ‘ok, let me take that back’.

“No way,” she drawls, giving in to the constant, nagging impulse to dig her fingers into his ridiculous hair. “Everyone else is always so ungrateful when I try to feed them – did you know they called me _a meddlesome mother-hen_ last week? Also, you’re sort of my guinea pig. If you stop eating my food, who knows what other poor idiot will have to do it?”

“Bacon sandwiches are hardly a precarious culinary experiment,” he snarks back, valiantly tolerating how she tugs at his curls in retaliation.

“You want a proper experiment, wait until tomorrow. My hummus basil muffins will knock your socks off.”

She likes the bickering, for all it makes her life a little harder. It means he isn’t afraid of her anymore and, with the careful way he still behaves around her mother, it’s sort of flattering. He easily leans his head against her hand, but Hannah’s smile freezes on her face. She’s noticed the green-and-purple smudge on his neck, disappearing under his collar. Boys tend to collect bruises like other people collect stamps, so she didn’t think much about it. But from this angle it looks suspiciously like a finger, the shape of what might be a second one impressed on his collar bone. As if someone put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed until the blood vessels gave. Mrs. Martinez’s words ring in her ears.

“Hey, Isaac,” she starts, only half certain of how to approach the situation, but the door bell chimes loudly and startles her out of her moment of quiet disconcertment. She scowls.

“Hey, Han.”

“Steven,” she grinds out. “I’m surprised to see you. I didn’t think you’d come back.” I didn’t think you’d dare to.

“Ah, you know,” he drawls, “I thought you’d change your mind in the end.” His condescending eyes fall on Isaac, hunched over again and curly hair still tangled in her fingers. “Who’s that?” he grunts, eyes alight in displeasure. “Wait – you’re a bench warmer for the Lacrosse team, aren’t you? What the hell, Hannah, and he’s not too young for you?”

She glares at him, already feeling weeks of progress slowly unraveling.

“Shut the hell up,” she snaps. “You’re such an arrogant asshole. I really don’t care how young or old you are, I just don’t want to date you. Is that so hard to understand?” For a moment she’s glad they are alone right now; this is not the sort of talk she wants to have in front of customers. But then Steven stalks towards them and for the first time she realizes just how tall he is. Ice runs through her, but Hannah refuses to flinch, irrationally sure that if she can meet him head-on it’ll turn out okay somehow. But Steven’s not even interested in her; rather he turns his glare on Isaac who goes wide-eyed and pale.

“That’s really pathetic,” he spits out. “God knows I’d be desperate with no friends, but clinging to a girl like that – that’s pitiful.” Hannah gawks at him, for a moment shocked into silence.

“Shut the hell up,” she finally repeats, this time more forceful. “And get out! I can’t believe this – how pathetic can _you_ be? Just because you got rejected you freak out like this.”

Steven’s eyes flit over to her, but it’s like he doesn’t even understand what she’s saying.

“You need a girl to defend you?” he scoffs, like a school-yard bully. That’s exactly what he is, Hannah thinks – a school-yard bully.

“A girl that can kick your ass,” she snaps, fed up with this ridiculous drama. She pushes him hard enough for the older boy to stumble. “MOM!” Somewhere in the backrooms there is a crash and then the sound of her mother coming down the stairs. Hannah isn’t sure just how alarmed she must have sounded, but it’s enough to send her mother jumping the last steps in her heels. When the older woman comes through the door, she only catches a glimpse of Steven’s dark hair as he races out the door and past the windows.

 

“I’m going to kill him,” her mother grouses five minutes later, still completely outraged when Hannah has already moved on to quiet apprehension. It’s comforting though, to hear her mom putter around; to know that an adult is here. On the chair next to her Isaac is still tense and silent. The color hasn’t returned to his face yet and it makes the edges of his bruise stand out even more starkly. He looks embarrassed and horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers at him while her mother busies herself behind the counter. His eyes snap up to her, startled. “This is all my fault. If I’d told him to shove off earlier or ... more seriously – I don’t know. This wouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this.” Because there’s little doubt in her mind that he’d catch shit for this at school now.

“Your fault?” The words sit awkward and clunky in his mouth, as if he can’t quite wrap his head around them. She only nods. For a moment he looks even more stricken.

“I should have said something,” he finally says. “Something. Anything. I shouldn’t have let him talk to you like that.”

“Don’t be silly,” she chides mildly, a little touched regardless. “He’s my problem, not yours.”

 

She never does manage to ask him about the bruises.

The next week Isaac doesn’t come in at all. When there’s no late night visitor on Monday, she worries. It’s not like him to be late – especially when it keeps her from closing up. But at twenty to nine Hannah can’t possibly wait any longer; she’s had to turn a few customers away, explaining that no, they’re not open anymore, even if the door is unlocked and the lights are on. She spends all Tuesday idly wondering what happened. Was he late to work and had to do without coffee? Did he forget?

When he doesn’t come in on Wednesday, her mother starts throwing her pitying looks. She’s too nice to say ‘I told you so’, but it’s definitely implied. But Hannah doesn’t believe it. Not after they’ve already become friends. Not now. She hopes to god that this hasn’t anything to do with Steven. If that idiot ... _said_ anything to Isaac ( _did anything to him_ ) then she’s going to pull a coffee bag over his head, stamp **faulty goods** on his ass and send him to Brazil.

By Thursday night worry has settled like a stone in her stomach. By half past eight she closes up but hesitates to go home. She doesn’t know for sure where he works, but ... the cemetery isn’t too far away. There’s a chance he works for his father – what other places would give a teenager so many night shifts? She could go check.

She shouldn’t.

There’s a few sandwiches still sitting in the left-over bag. She goes.

 

It’s easy to justify the decision after the fact. At home nothing but her course work waits for her anyway (one of the few downsides to moving out) and Isaac is her friend. She’s worried; that’s her prerogative. And it’s really not that far. If she’s wrong, well, then nobody has to know she went in the first place.

The cemetery is predictably creepy after dark, but there’s light coming from between the trees, so Hannah forges on. Her flats are pretty much the worst shoes for stomping through the grass; her feet get wet and cold even in the warm august night. The closer she gets to the light though, the less creepy the place gets. It’s reasonably well maintained and there are polished marble gravestones that look pretty rather than intimidating. The light reflects off them and one of the angles is thrown into sharp relief, wings throwing huge shadows over the grass.

A bit further off, wrestling with a bush, is a familiar figure. His hair looks almost white in the light and his shadow is even taller and lankier than Isaac himself. All of a sudden Hannah feels like an idiot. She shouldn’t have come. For a moment she watches him struggle awkwardly with the plant and it eases her nerves a little. She’s here now and the sandwiches weight heavy in her bag. Hannah walks over the grass, her own steps sounding very loud in her ears. But Isaac doesn’t seem to notice. Instead she hears him curse quietly, pulling off one thick glove and eying his hand. The bush appears to be a wild blackberry bush, full of thorns and probably deeply rooted like every wild plant.

“Isaac,” she tries and watches him whirl around, wild-eyed. For moment they stare at each other – he, as if he can’t quite believe she even exists outside the shop and she, because there is a dark bruise purpling the entirety of his left cheekbone. His lip is split too, hardly scabbed over and angry looking. Hannah opens her mouth to ... curse, or maybe ask what the hell happened, but Isaac is quicker than her.

“I fell,” he says as if on reflex. Hannah takes a deep breath.

“Yes,” she agrees dumbly, watching his shoulders sag in relief. Hannah swallows thickly. “Yes, I can see that.” It looks painful, and when he bites his lip in embarrassment and draws blood, Hannah flinches in sympathy. Sickness coils in her belly.

“Stop that,” she rasps, taking a few more steps over to him. She rummages in her bag for a tube of chapstick but only comes up with a blueberry flavoured one in fierce pink. She curses.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asks, watching in apprehension as she contemplates whether she can talk him into using it anyway.

“You didn’t come in all week,” she grumbles and it ends up sounding a little reproachful. “I was worried.” And for good reason too, she thinks. From this close up, his face looks even worse. It’s a small miracle that his eye didn’t blacken right along. Hannah abandons the chapstick and instead pulls one of the sandwiches out of her bag. Isaac watches her cautiously.

“I’m fine,” he insists mildly. “You didn’t have to come look for me.”

“Yes I did. Now take this.” She shoves the sandwich into his hands a little brusquely. Maybe he feels a bad for not coming around, but whatever the reason, Isaac takes the sandwich without protest and starts to unwrap it gingerly. It’s bacon and avocado, because he likes them best, and Hannah sits down in the slightly damp grass, waiting for him to follow. “Why didn’t you come by?” she finally dares to ask, after a few minutes of not-quite awkward silence.

He shrugs. “I didn’t think you’d want me around looking like I got into a fight. And lost.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says. “We have cold packs, you know.” Hannah offers him the scandalously pink chapstick once more and Isaac laughs.

 

The busted lip heals and slowly but surely the purple bruise fades to a sickly yellow. Hannah watches the entire thing with a mix of relief and unease. It’s not the last one he brings in; a month after the cemetery, a band of dark blue wraps around his wrist and when he catches her stare at it, Isaac stiffens and leaves very quickly.

It’s an uneasy calm. It doesn’t help that Steven still occasionally lurks at the door. He never comes in, but Hannah can see him through the window, staring at the front door as if he’s thinking about it. “If he does, we call the police,” her mother says. “I have half a mind to do it anyway. That guy obviously has some screws loose.” But calling the police is pretty much the last thing Hannah wants. It’d be negative publicity and she refuses to give a stupid high school student that much power over her. “Don’t be a hero,” the older woman warns. “Better safe than sorry.”

Some evenings Hannah contemplates just when her life got so out of control. She doesn’t understand how just two people could make such a mess of her. She missed a deadline because of Isaac’s sudden disappearance and trawling Beacon Hills’ measly bars has been the last thing on her mind for weeks now, because every dark haired moron reminds her of Steven. Her precious few friends are starting to get annoyed and Hannah seriously contemplates whether they’re really worth the effort. Her mother’s only contribution was, “You’re an idiot,” which is fact but not very helpful.

“I’m an idiot,” she agrees out loud. If her own life were bit more interesting, maybe she would have gotten involved in this mess. But no, she would have. Steven would still be Steven and Isaac would still be Isaac. There’s no way she’d go out with the former and no way she wouldn’t care about the latter. Hannah groans. The entire situation is fucked up. She gathers her night clothes and a fresh towel and makes her way to the bathroom.

Maybe it’s time she pulled back a little. She can easily bribe her mother into taking over the counter for a while – just for a while, until Steven loses interest – and she’ll let Isaac do his thing. It doesn’t feel right to abandon him like that. But she can’t keep him, Hannah reminds herself. There’s no end goal here. If his father really ... hits him, there’s nothing she can do short of calling child services. And she’s sure that, if it were that simple, Mrs. Martinez would have done so already. She’s not that naive. More often than not, an abusive parent is the lesser evil.

In the mirror her reflection looks tired and worn out. Hannah rubs her eyes and sticks the toothbrush into her mouth. The taste of peppermint is aggressive enough to distract her for a few minutes, but then her thoughts inevitably return to the problem at hand.

You can’t keep him, she repeats firmly. Deal with it. With that thought she goes to bed.

 

Of course it’s not that easy. The first time she contemplates leaving her mother to deal with Isaac, well-meaning but even more pushy than Hannah herself, is the first time Isaac actually asks for her.

“Where is Hannah?” he blurts out when asked for his order.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” her mother chortles, “We don’t serve that here.” He looks bewildered for a moment and a little lost. Hannah presses herself flat behind the door frame, conscious warring with self-preservation. To be honest, she didn’t expect any resistance from him. The few time she didn’t manage to get out of the kitchen in time for his visit, he dealt with her mother, polite and quiet. He always seemed relieved when she came to take over, but never voiced any complaints. Looks like they’ve hit another milestone in their relationship, and that at the worst possible moment. “Hannah,” her mother calls, obviously equally affected by his sullen expression and unwilling to play along anymore. “You’ve been requested!” Isaac flushes a little but doesn’t protest. “Don’t yell, woman,” she grouches, obediently making her way to the counter. Her mother swats at her and disappears into the kitchen. Hannah watches her go, already feeling her resolve crumble; great. She turns to the blonde boy in front of her and tries for a smile.

“Hi,” he says, and then, “You weren’t there.” Hannah cracks a small grin, more genuine this time.

“Sorry about that. I lost track of time.”

He nods absentmindedly. “All right. I was ... worried.”

 

Peace lasts for a few more weeks. The second time Isaac doesn’t come in, all alarms start going off in Hannah’s head. He knows now that it doesn’t matter how bad he looks – she wants him to come in and maybe put a bag of peas on his stupid face. Despite that, she can’t possibly justify tracking him down just because he missed a Monday. On Tuesday she resolves to wait until Thursday again, just to be sure. “That boy,” her mother sighs, sounding pained. “Hannah, I know you’re a bit of a bleeding heart, but you can’t let this eat you up. Isaac is a strong one; he made it this far without you and I’m sure he’ll make it until he turns eighteen. Don’t worry so much.”

But she didn’t see it. She didn’t see him standing in the cemetery, clutching his work gloves and looking as if he fully expected her to be angry at him. Not worried, _furious_. She didn’t see him bite his lip open again with nerves, blood dribbling onto his shirt and staining bits of his sandwich pink.

On Thursday she makes her way to the cemetery, but everything is dark. She skulks along the graves like a creep for half an hour before giving up and going home. “Let it go,” her mother advises on Tuesday, when Isaac’s been MIA for over a week. “Wait for him to come back.”

It’s sound advice, Hannah thinks. But he never does come back.

 


End file.
